


Like A Wheel, Gonna Spin It

by leonidaslion



Category: Friday the 13th Series (Movies), Supernatural
Genre: Bondage, Double Penetration, Dubious Consent, M/M, Threesome, Threesome - M/M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-14
Updated: 2011-04-14
Packaged: 2017-10-18 02:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/183726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there is a motorcycle, but Dean is the one being ridden...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like A Wheel, Gonna Spin It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dauntdraws](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=dauntdraws).



> This takes place after the movie's "shocker" finale, following Clay's decision that he's gonna need a bigger boat. Metaphorically speaking. ;)

This is stupid. This is so fucking stupid, Dean almost can’t stand himself for agreeing to it.

Never mind the fact that it’s broad daylight and Dean is stark naked in the middle of some rich yuppie’s yard. Never mind the fact that there are about five million mosquitoes out here, all of them with a taste for Winchester blood. Never mind that there’s a revenant the size of a yeti out there somewhere, that could possibly be hunting them right now.

Dean’s not _gay_ , for fuck’s sake.

Only the fact that he’s tied down on this kid’s motorcycle, hard and willing, has left him nose-to-nose with a whole lot of evidence that he might not be quite as straight as he thought. It’s just ... it’s not Dean’s fault, okay? It’s the kid, who is over six feet of pure muscle and toothy grins and sex and absolutely impossible to turn down. He called them out here to help get his sister back from something that wouldn’t stay dead and Dean took one look at the guy and went blindingly, painfully hard.

Getting it out of his system before tonight’s planned track and burn is the only thing left to do. Or that’s what Dean keeps telling himself, anyway.

“How’s that feel?” Clay asks as he tugs at the rope fastening Dean’s hands to the handlebar.

Dean sort of wants to snap a sarcastic response, but Clay is watching him with those dark brown eyes—eager and unbelieving at the same time, like he thinks Dean’s going to call this off at any moment. There’s a sharp edge to his gaze too, though; something that Dean sees in the mirror sometimes, when he looks too hard.

He thinks again how monumentally stupid he’s being, letting himself be restrained by a stranger, but the flush of nerves isn’t half as strong as it should be. Maybe because Sam is right, and Dean’s used to being led around by his dick. Or maybe because, for some indefinable reason, Dean trusted this dude at first sight.

Okay, _mostly_ trusted. But damned if the spike of uncertainty running through Dean now isn’t making him even more excited than he already was.

“Kind of need an answer here,” Clay prods, running a hand up Dean’s arm and making him tense reflexively. “Because I’m not going to want to stop once we get started.”

“It’s fine,” Dean says, but Clay moves around behind him anyway, to tug again at the rope binding Dean’s calves to the spokes of the rear wheel. Dean’s heart rate kicks up a notch—now that he can’t see the kid, he can find all sorts of things to worry about—and he jerks involuntarily against the restraints, making the bike sway a little and rubbing his balls against the leather seat with a little too much dry friction to be comfortable.

He could lift up, has just about that much slack, but he feels safer with his dick tucked between his stomach and the higher shelf of the pillion seat. Not a whole lot safer, since there’s still plenty of him left on display, but Dean will take what he can get right now.

“Hey,” Clay says, stepping back up where Dean can see him. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

And then he rests a hand on the small of Dean’s back, like Dean is some sort of skittish horse he’s planning on mounting.

Clenching his jaw, Dean bites out, “I can take care of myself.”

He’s aware of how he must look, draped over the bike on his stomach and lashed down nice and tight. Clay has spent the last ten minutes securing him, shifting Dean’s arms and legs with brief, almost impersonal nudges. Dean can’t remember ever having felt this exposed or vulnerable, trussed down with a piece of metal between his legs and his hands very definitely out of commission.

Embarrassment twists suddenly in his chest, sharp and hot, and he wants to snarl. He wants to thrash around until he tears loose from the bike and then lay into Clay for fucking everything up in his head.

Goddamn it, Dean has to learn to think things through and not fold just because some yeti with shaggy hair and a disarming smile makes puppy eyes at him. Or because the way Clay is looking at him ( _sweep of those soft, dark eyes up and down Dean’s body where he’s spread across the bike_ ) makes him too horny to think properly.

With an internal groan, Dean drops his eyes, letting his forehead thunk down onto the gas tank.

“Shit, you’re pretty,” Clay observes. His voice seems to have slipped a few octaves, and the words scrape along Dean’s spine, making him shiver. He’s sweating; can’t get enough air in his lungs.

“Fuck you,” he manages even though his head is spinning. He isn’t all that clear on why he’s mouthing off, though, and he doesn’t jerk away when Clay’s hand trails up his back and rakes through his hair. Dude’s scratching Dean’s scalp with his nails, and tugging on the painstakingly tousled strands, and it feels way better than it has any right to feel.

The girls Dean usually picks up know better than to mess with a man’s hair.

“What’s your safe word?” Clay wants to know.

Dean may be out of his depth here, but he isn’t a complete moron, which means he’s heard that term before. He knows what Clay is asking for. The knowledge shocks cold through him—a biting ice that isn’t quite intense enough to quench the heat running just below his skin.

Instead of demanding to be untied right the fuck now, he only says, “I’m gonna need one?”

Clay makes a sound that could really mean anything—funny how clear Dean is that the dude’s a total stranger when he isn’t looking at him—and goes on playing with Dean’s hair. It’s going to be a mess when they’re done here, and the thought of having to explain to Sam is enough to make Dean give his head an irritable shake.

Clay’s hand tightens as he leans down to whisper, “Nervous?”

“I’m naked and tied to a fucking bike with a total stranger pawing at me, what the hell would I have to be nervous about?”

“Sarcasm. That’s funny, Dean. I like it. Still need your safe word.”

“Why, are you planning on carving me up?” It’s Clay’s tone more than anything that prompts the reply—lingering echoes in Dean’s head of that yellow-eyed bastard mocking him in the cabin, and then again, in Hell, with Alistair. Part of him wants to lift his head and check the color of Clay’s eyes, but mostly he doesn’t want to know.

Not that it matters when Clay gives his hair a meaningful tug and forces his head up.

Clay is smiling that charming, easy smile that threw Dean for such a loop when he and Sam met up with the guy. His eyes are still brown and human, but that isn’t actually reassuring at all, because that huge-ass knife he always carries strapped to his side is suddenly out and in his hand.

Oh, fuck. If Dean lives through this, he’s never having sex again. Ever.

Then Clay releases his hair and flips the knife, catching it by the blade. Dean stares, nonplussed, as Clay taps the handle against the pads of Dean’s fingers.

“Take it.”

Dean doesn’t have to be told that twice. He has a grip on the thing almost before the words are out of Clay’s mouth. Funny how much better he feels with the weight of sharpened steel in his right hand.

“I’m guessing you could cut yourself free pretty quickly with that,” Clay says, planting one hand on the lower edge of the gas tank near Dean’s chest and resting the other on Dean’s hip. “You want to end things, that’s all you need to do. So, are we set?”

Absolutely not. Especially not with the way Clay is looking at him, with this covetous, hungry cast to his gaze and his hand drifting southward down Dean’s body to palm one of his ass cheeks.

Dean tenses. He’s well aware that Clay can feel it, even before the flicker of amusement appears in the dude’s eyes, but it’s the amusement that hardens his chest and makes him grunt, “Stop stalling. We’re on a clock here.”

“Right,” Clay answers, still with that amused smirk lingering around his mouth. “Because we wouldn’t want to be out here when Sam gets back from town.”

He says it like Dean’s missing something, like not wanting Sam to get an eyeful of him taking it up the ass from some random kid is the funniest thing he’s heard all year.

“Would you want your sister walking in on you doing the nasty?” he responds.

The answer is a no, Dean reads that in Clay’s face easily enough, but the dude is still grinning as he lifts his hands and moves back around out of sight. Dean could twist his neck to follow, but that’s too close to confirmation that he’s still anxious as hell. He faces forward instead, tightening his grip on the knife and noting that it’s more than sharp enough to have him free with a single twist.

Then Clay’s oversized hands are back, one on each of Dean’s cheeks—kneading and spreading and basically doing things that no hands have done before. Dean’s had some girls grab him there, but they were mostly hanging on for dear life or urging him to go faster. This is a different sensation, exposing and humbling, and fuck, he’s really doing this, isn’t he? Because as knotted up as his stomach is—as many light, uncomfortable flutters as he has filling his chest—his cock is just as hard and full as it has been since Clay cornered him up at the house and asked if Dean wanted to blow off a little steam.

Dean isn’t sure he likes what that says about him.

“You really haven’t ever done this before, have you?”

“What, let some possibly psychotic asshole tie me to his bike?”

“Well, sure. That. And this.”

And then there’s a thumb rubbing at a spot between Dean’s cheeks, rubbing with just the barest edge of pressure. It feels really fucking good, sending shivers up Dean’s back and down into his legs, and it actually takes him almost ten seconds to figure out just what Clay is focused on.

Then his muscles lock on him and his heart rate ratchets up, echoing alarmingly in his ears. When the moment of shocked understanding passes, he instinctively tries to jerk away, only to come up short against the ropes holding him down on the bike.

Christ, he wants to use the knife in his hands.

“Hey,” Clay breathes. His thumb is still circling that spot, alternating between teasing, shivery strokes and firmer caresses that leave Dean really aware that there’s a tiny hollow there—something way too fucking small to accommodate whatever Clay is thinking of shoving inside, even if his dick turns out to be the size of a matchstick.

Which Dean is most assuredly confident it is not.

“What?” Dean bites out.

“I’m gonna go gentle on you,” Clay tells him. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. If it was just you and me in my apartment, I’d lock the door for a few days and spend some quality time breaking you in. But I need you in good shape for tonight—I need you to help get my sister back—so you don’t need to worry about walking straight.”

Great. Dean’s worrying about it _now_.

“But if we’re going to do this without leaving you a little sore, you’re going to need to relax. Otherwise, it’s gonna get pretty uncomfortable before it gets better.”

Dean does not like the sound of that. Trying to keep the nerves out of his voice, he says, “Thought you needed me in good shape.”

“Are you telling me you’re really going to be thrown off your game by a little burn? Big strong hunter like you?”

Sam uses this psychobabble bullshit on Dean all the time, so he recognizes it instantly. Not that recognizing it means it doesn’t work. Motherfucking college boys and their motherfucking Psych 101 classes.

“I can handle anything you dish out, buddy.”

Clay chuckles, and the hand not playing with the sensitive place between Dean’s cheeks slides up to caress his lower back. “If you’re still interested in making that challenge when this is all over, I would love to have you in my apartment. Fuck, you’d look nice in my bed. Bent over the kitchen table, too. I think it’s strong enough to take your weight.”

“Hey!” Dean protests, rallying at the insult. “Are you calling me fat?”

“Little insecure, aren’t you?” Clay responds, trailing his fingers down Dean’s side before wrapping a hand around Dean’s upper thigh.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Dean asks, tensing.

Clay’s voice is just as calm as ever as he answers, “Just checking. Feels like muscle to me.”

He releases Dean’s thigh and then forces his hand between Dean’s stomach and the bike, getting hold of Dean’s dick before Dean has even realized he might be reaching for it. Dean uses the tiny amount of give in the ropes to push up higher, then realizes belatedly that’s exactly what Clay was angling for when the son of a bitch uses the extra space to give Dean’s cock a stroke.

This is possibly maybe probably not a bad thing.

It’s awkward to hold himself up, puts a lot of strain on Dean’s shoulders and back and legs—stomach muscles engaged, too, holding him still and steady—but it’s more than worth it to feel that hand working his cock. Christ, he feels like he’s been waiting for this for years, instead of the few hours it’s been since he and Sam rolled into town.

“You like that?” Clay asks, like the answer isn’t obvious from the way Dean’s breathing has gone heavy—or from the interested twitching of his dick in Clay’s hand.

“Doesn’t suck,” Dean answers tightly, just barely managing to keep from expressing his appreciation with a groan.

“Because I can promise that having my dick in your ass is going to feel even better.”

“I already said yes, Clay,” Dean says, giving a tiny thrust when Clay somehow manages to get his hand around Dean’s balls as well. He’s always been sensitive there, and girls are prone to neglect the boys in favor of the more obvious target. Clay, though—Clay is giving Dean’s cock and balls both the same, firm tugs, and it’s building a tension in Dean’s groin that he recognizes from years of experience.

“I just want you to be sure,” Clay says, which is great and all ( _and just the stupid, gentlemanly gesture Sam probably makes for his dates_ ), but really unnecessary.

Nerves or not, Dean is more than ready for liftoff—and in more ways than one.

“I’m gonna get spunk on your bike.”

Clay stops tugging immediately, although his restless thumb continues to rub back and forth between the cheeks of Dean’s ass. For a couple of seconds, there’s silence as Dean struggles to drag himself back from the edge.

Then Clay says, “It’ll wash off,” and holy shit, Dean is not prepared for that languid, stroking squeeze that Clay gives his balls and cock.

He barely has time to grunt his surprise before his orgasm hits him, strong enough that he makes another noise—a low, reluctant moan that has no business coming out of his throat when he’s in this sort of position. He tries to straighten, only to be reminded by the pull of the ropes around his wrists and calves that he can’t, and for some reason that reminder redoubles the pleasure shooting through him.

“Aw, fuck,” he groans, then drops his forehead down against the gas tank as Clay adjusts the hand that’s cupping Dean’s junk and starts full on massaging his balls.

By the time it’s over and the normal post-orgasmic stupor hits Dean’s muscles, the seat beneath him has been liberally splattered with come. Dean is struck by the absurd realization that he can’t be sure if that’s an abnormal amount for him or not; he hasn’t needed to take care of himself for years—decades, if you throw Hell into the tally—and the girls he picks up are generally the ones who are nice enough to take care of condom disposal.

He can’t think about that question for too long, though, because Clay is still playing with his balls, and that shit is getting painful enough that not even the thumb pressing up against his backdoor is really registering anymore.

“Okay,” Dean says, shifting his groin away from the touch as best as he can with his limited range of movement. “Okay, stop.”

Clay does, thank god. Dean doesn’t even consider the possibility that Clay won’t until after his hand is back on Dean’s hip. There’s a surge of relief, followed by the recollection of the knife that he’s miraculously still holding. Not that Dean has enough feeling in his hands right now to use it _well_ , but the sight of the blade when he lifts his head a little is comforting anyway.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” he says, fighting the urge to sink down against the bike and not move for the next five years. The feeling of come sliding between his stomach and the leather surface of the seat isn’t something he really wants to experience.

“I’m banking on you having decent recovery,” Clay says. “Besides, you needed something to relax you, and I don’t have any lube.”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” Dean asks, shifting around in an effort to find a comfortable position that doesn’t involve lying down on the bike.

Clay doesn’t answer him, but his hand does come away from Dean’s hip. A moment later, his other hand stops rubbing over Dean’s hole; fingers spreading instead to push against either cheek and expose his ass to the air. Dean twists, straining to look back and see what’s happening with his lower half, and is just in time to catch Clay pulling his right hand back out of sight. The dude was reaching for something, although what Dean has no clue. He finds out a second later, when wet, slippery fingers prod at his ass.

There aren’t a whole lot of things within arm’s length that could be responsible for that moisture.

“Oh, hell no,” Dean mutters, although he doesn’t shift away. He’s still a little too worn out from his orgasm to put up much of a fight right now.

“I just need to get you started out,” Clay says, ignoring Dean’s feeble protest and continuing to prod at him.

“You don’t have, like, motor oil or something for this piece of junk?”

That gets him a quick glance of Clay’s eyes—Clay might possibly be offended, not that Dean cares; the bike’s a piece of shit, Dean calls them as he sees them—before he goes back to focusing on teasing the rim of Dean’s hole.

“You don’t want motor oil up here. Trust me.”

Dean doesn’t really want his own come up there either, but he realizes as the teasing becomes a steady, burning pressure, that it’s a moot point. Christ, that hurts.

“Fuck, you’re really tight,” Clay observes, pushing harder. It feels like he’s trying to shove a square peg into a round hole, and Dean—yeah, this is not his idea of a good time. He lets his muscles do what they’ve been begging for and drops back down onto the bike, suddenly enough that Clay looses his grip and the bike gives an unsteady rock. Dean’s neck muscles give a grateful pulse as he looks forward again, resting his cheek against the side of the gas tank.

“I thought this was supposed to feel good,” he says before Clay can get his hands back on the prize again. If that was any indication of how the rest of this experiment is going to go, then Dean is seriously considering using the knife.

“It _will_.” For the first time, Clay’s composure seems ruffled, which is slightly gratifying. Dean was beginning to get a little creeped out by how steady the dude was. “But I need to open you up first, and in order to do that, you have to relax.”

“You try relaxing when someone’s bent on shoving stuff up your ass.”

“I have,” Clay snaps. “Which, by the way, is how I know it feels fucking awesome.”

Huh. Yeah, that’s a curve ball Dean wasn’t expecting. He can’t exactly see someone Clay’s size letting anyone do this to them. Not that he’s been having much luck picturing himself on the receiving end, either.

He can’t deny that it eases a lot of the anxiety building up in his chest.

“So,” he says grudgingly after a few moments of silence. “What do you want me to do?”

There’s another beat where he thinks Clay might have given up on him, and then Clay says, “There’s something else I can try. You need to scoot back as far as you can.”

“Or you could untie me and we could do this in a bed,” Dean counters.

“You look good like this,” Clay answers. “But if you want to pussy out, we can—”

“No one’s pussying out, asshole.” Dean takes a moment to clench his jaw and then complies with Clay’s request, wriggling back on the bike until his arms are stretched out in front of him. It leaves him in a weird position, ass hanging off the end of the bike in midair like he’s been frozen in the process of sitting down. His stomach and chest are still supported, though, so it isn’t actually uncomfortable.

At the sound of dirt scuffing, Dean glances back to see Clay kneeling behind him, eyes fixed between Dean’s legs. Clay’s hands come up to grip Dean’s ass, one cheek in each hand, and Dean tries to resist the urge to tense as he’s pulled open again.

“You need to be a little higher,” Clay says as he shuffles closer on his knees.

Turning forward again, Dean pushes up off the ground—slightly more awkward, and not just physically. Fuck, he must be practically shoving his ass in Clay’s face right now, the level’s about right, and—

“Jesus Christ!” he blurts, bolting forward and coming to an immediate and jarring stop as the ropes bring him up short. His heart is pounding in his chest, adrenaline rushing through his veins. He’d be using the knife right fucking now if he could be sure his shaking hands could handle it.

And Clay is laughing at him.

“Asshole,” Dean growls, stilling as he realizes how out of proportion his response was.

“It’s just a tongue, Dean.”

“You can’t just—just go around _licking_ people without warning.”

“What did you think I was going to do?”

“I don’t know! I didn’t think you were going to treat my ass like an ice cream cone.”

“You want warning? Okay, here you go: I’m going to rim you until you relax and open up a little. In case you’re a little hazy on the vocabulary, rimming means I’m going to use my mouth and tongue on your ass. When I think you’re ready for it, I’m going to add a finger, and then we’ll see about opening you up enough for my dick.”

Dean wishes he could say that the description isn’t turning him on, but his recovery time is actually pretty decent, and his cock is starting to perk up again where it’s trapped beneath him. It’s been wrong before ( _that waitress in Tampa, for example_ ), but not often.

He makes himself ease back into roughly the same position he was in before, and when he feels Clay’s warm exhalation over his ass, he flinches but doesn’t pull away. Clay’s fingers slide into place with gentle, reassuring slowness, kneading a little before pulling Dean open and urging him to lift higher.

“Right there,” Clay murmurs, stroking his thumb over Dean’s ass in praise. “Just stay still and let me do all the work, okay?”

Something about the phrasing of that, or maybe the tone of Clay’s voice, makes Dean feel like Clay has gotten confused as to whether he’s handling a guy or a girl, but he doesn’t have time to protest, because there’s no pause between Clay’s declaration and the slow, wet lap of a tongue between Dean’s cheeks.

It’s a little weird, but now that Dean is prepared for it, he can’t classify the sensation as unpleasant. Might be more unsettling than anything else, actually, because with Clay’s mouth and tongue right there, he feels exposed in a way that has nothing to do with the way Clay is holding his ass open. But Dean is sick of letting his nerves get the better of him, and he’s desperate to have what the dude has been promising—maybe fucking Clay will get the blinding obsession out of his system—so he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against the inside of his left arm.

Clay gives several more of those long, slow licks—starting at the base of Dean’s balls and ending at the tail end of his spine. It isn’t until Dean has gotten more or less used to the sensation that he narrows in, focusing on the rim of Dean’s hole. He circles it with just the tip of his tongue at first—sending teasing jolts of excitement through Dean every time his tongue slips and catches on the tiny indent he’s trying to urge open. Then, so gradually Dean isn’t even sure when the transition occurs, Clay puts the rest of his mouth to work, setting his lips against Dean’s skin and sucking in between increasingly demanding licks.

It feels good. Wet, yeah, because Clay isn’t going easy on the spit, but Dean can definitely see how gay guys could go in for this. He grimaces when he catches himself moving restlessly, straining back against the ropes like he can somehow make the teasing pressure of Clay’s tongue into the firmer push he craves. It’s humiliating, having so little control over his reactions, but he can’t seem to convince himself to stop. Worse, he’s making noises—quiet, choked off moans and what sound suspiciously like whimpers.

Then Clay pushes harder, twisting his tongue in a new, corkscrewing motion that really ought to be illegal, and Dean feels the tip slip past his rim. It’s a shallow thrust, hardly anything, but white, shimmering hunger spills through him at the insinuation—promise, really—of what’s going to follow.

“Christ,” he breathes, clenching his left hand into a fist and tightening his grip on the knife with his right.

Clay chuckles—without pulling his tongue back, which means the vibrations go right through Dean. The noise Dean makes now very definitely isn’t anything but a whine.

The tension in Dean’s chest builds to an unbearable pressure—he can’t be doing this, can’t _be_ this—and stays there, filling him as Clay wriggles his tongue deeper. Biting down on his lower lip, Dean tries to focus on the heat of the summer afternoon, on the rope digging into his wrists and calves, on the lazy sounds of birds and insects. It’s a useless play for distraction, though, especially when Clay shifts his grip on Dean’s ass and starts pushing a finger in alongside the blunt, shallow intrusion of his tongue.

Dean grunts, trying to tense, and finds that his ass has been licked too stupid to respond. Instead of keeping Clay’s finger out, his attempts to slow this down only seem to be speeding things up; when he bears down, there’s a brief stab, followed by a burn as Clay’s finger pushes deeper. A moment later, something wiggles inside him—fucking _inside_ him—and Dean swears under his breath.

Now that Dean’s ass is cooperating, Clay has stopped trying to force his tongue in as well and gone back to lapping at the rim of his hole. Dean wishes it weren’t helping, but warm shivers are overtaking the burn and making him groan again. When Clay starts moving his finger carefully in and out, Dean feels nothing but heat, twisting and building in his groin. He moans in protest when Clay’s tongue disappears a moment later and the summer air rushes in, cool against his wet hole.

“Look at you,” Clay says in a soft, wondering voice. “It’s going to be a job and a half getting in there, but you were made for this, weren’t you?”

Right now, Dean’d agree to pretty much anything if it means more of what he was getting a moment ago, and he nods without really giving Clay’s words any thought.

“C’mon,” he pants, pushing back onto Clay’s finger. “Fuckin’—don’t stop.”

“You want more?” Clay asks, moving his finger in and out of Dean more quickly. “Want something a little thicker? A little deeper?”

Yeah, both. Fuck, Dean can’t even begin to imagine what the dude’s cock is going to feel like if just his finger is sending Dean this far out of control. Either he actually makes some sort of affirmative sign or Clay was just talking to himself, because a second later, he feels renewed pressure at his hole.

“I’m giving you two,” Clay tells him, and pushes both fingers forward together.

This time, Dean is ready for the ache, which is offset by the dizzying sensation of being penetrated. His cock is fully hard now—and, he realizes when he rests his forehead against the lower edge of the gas tank and looks down at his body, dribbling precome.

Clay has one hell of a clean up ahead of him.

“This part’s going to sting a little,” Clay says, “but I’ll do my best to help you through it, okay?”

Dean can see Clay moving in closer again between his tensed thighs and swallows thickly at the pang of longing that goes through him at the partially obscured sight of the guy’s face.

“You just have to trust me to make it good again,” Clay finishes, and then his tongue is back, licking around the twitching rim of Dean’s hole as he works his fingers in and out. Dean scrunches his face up and presses his lips together as he holds himself still. He isn’t sure what Clay was talking about, because there might be a little bit of a dragging burn where Clay’s fingers are moving in and out of him, but Clay’s warm, wet mouth is more than making up for it.

Then Clay pushes his fingers deep and leaves them there, wedged inside Dean’s ass where he can practically feel his pulse beating against their solid weight. Clay’s tongue moves faster than ever, almost frantically, and Dean realizes that his body is swaying back and forth in minute thrusting motions. His balls ache; his cock hangs sensitive and full, the tip dragging against the bike’s raised back seat.

“Clay,” he says urgently. “Clay, man, I’m gonna—”

And that’s when the hazy, pleasurable burn in his ass sharpens, turning his warning into a hiss. He clenches up, which only makes it hurt worse, and yeah, shooting early really isn’t a problem anymore.

“Ow, fuck!” he complains, jerking his hips as though that’s going to do anything to stop whatever Clay is doing to him back there. It isn’t—he knows it isn’t, just like he knows how he can stop this: by using the knife he’s still clinging to. But that would be giving up, and he remembers how awesome it felt a few moments ago, and Clay promised it’d get good again.

Dean’s giving him until the count of ten and then he’s pulling the plug.

He starts counting in his head while fighting to relax, and by the time he hits six, the stabbing pain has diffused to something more bearable. Clay’s tongue matters again—feels more than a little good dipping down inside Dean’s ass the way it keeps doing. It occurs to Dean that it’s getting deeper than before, leaving him damp and loose while Clay continues to use his fingers to urge Dean wider.

When Clay spreads his fingers and gives his hand a twist, Dean’s groan carries more pleasure than pain. He doesn’t protest the third finger Clay adds a moment later, and the increased burn isn’t anything like the initial spread was. Either Clay broke him, or this is actually something that his muscles can be taught to accommodate.

Dean is really hoping it’s the latter.

He’s just starting to get back into things when Clay’s mouth disappears. A moment later, so do Clay’s fingers.

Dean blinks open eyes he doesn’t remember closing and looks back to see Clay wiping his chin as he pushes to his feet.

“What’s wrong?” he asks—Christ, his voice sounds funny.

“Nothing,” Clay says, giving Dean’s inner thigh a quick caress before reaching for his belt buckle. “You’re as primed as you’re going to get. And I am so fucking past ready to be in you.”

Dean’s stomach gives an unsteady lurch—fingers and tongue are one thing, but now that Clay is dropping his pants and giving Dean a good look at his cock, Dean isn’t at all sure this is going to work.

Figures the dude’d be proportional.

He’s slightly reassured when Clay tugs on a condom—something he probably should have insisted on, except he wasn’t thinking straight when Clay hustled him down here, all hands and heavy, whispered promises. Then Clay moves forward again—slightly awkward shuffle, since he hasn’t bothered taking his jeans off—and Dean’s alarm surges.

“Hey,” he says. “Hey, hang—”

Clay grasps his thighs and hoists him up as high as the ropes will stretch. “You don’t want it, say no right now,” he says.

“It’s not—I just—Just give me a second to—”

“Right fucking now, Dean.” Clay’s voice is almost a growl. His hands tighten possessively.

Dean’s throat goes dry, but somehow he manages to mumble, “Anyone ever tell you you’re really fucking pushy?”

“Just know what I want,” Clay answers, attention fastened on Dean’s ass as he takes another shuffling step. His cock bumps the inside of Dean’s thigh and he lets go with one hand to guide himself into place.

As something blunt and smooth and a hell of a lot bigger than Clay’s fingers nudges against him, Dean flushes with heat. He’s unresisting as the crown of Clay’s cock pushes against his rim, threatening but not quite slipping inside. When Clay strokes a hand over Dean’s lower back, Dean shivers reflexively.

“Are you going to say no?” Clay asks.

Dean can’t imagine what it would be like to do that—haul himself back from the precipice and wait for his ass to go back to normal and stop feeling so damn needy. Maybe he just doesn’t want to. Pride, curiosity, plain old lust… Whatever the reason, he isn’t turning back now.

Silently, he shakes his head.

“You want this?”

Christ, why the hell is he dragging this out?

Dean bites the inside of his cheek and nods, then moans at the teasing almost-thrust that rocks Clay’s cock briefly deeper before leaving it nestled at his entrance again.

“Tell me,” Clay orders in a dark, insistent tone that strokes up against Dean in all the right places.

He hates that this stranger is able to do this to him, but he needs this itch scratched more than he needs his illusions of aloofness. Of course, that still doesn’t mean he wants to be vocal about it. The words come out mumbled past shut lips.

“What was that?” Clay asks, sliding the hand on Dean’s back underneath him to cup his balls. “I couldn’t quite hear you.”

Asshole.

“Fuck me,” Dean repeats, louder.

“Yeah,” Clay says. “Yeah, I think I will.”

The only warning Dean has that Clay is done screwing around is the tightening of the guy’s left hand on his hip. Then, suddenly, his ass is opening up around the head of Clay’s cock—not quite painlessly, but more welcomingly than Dean expected. Clay pushes in with a single, slow thrust, his dick twitching sporadically as it’s sheathed. Dean realizes that he’s chanting the same word over and over again under his breath—a steady litany of profanity that doesn’t even begin to express how this feels.

He’s full, and heavy—and, when Clay finally bottoms out, undeniably connected to Clay. Another man’s cock is inside him, taking up room Dean didn’t know he had to give, and it feels—fuck, it feels…

“Yeah,” Clay says in a tight, strained voice. “You like that, don’t you?”

His hand fondles Dean’s balls and Dean jerks against the ropes holding him in place. He doesn’t get far, but the reflexive motion is enough to have moved him slightly off and then back onto Clay’s cock, and Dean doesn’t think ‘like’ is the right word. Not when he immediately does it again, purposefully this time. Not when there are breathy, low moans spilling past his lips. Not when his chest is twisted in such an alarming mix of embarrassment and excitement and shame and rapture.

“Fuck,” Clay mutters. Releasing Dean’s balls, he takes hold of Dean’s hips with both hands and holds him still while drawing out—a long, electric drag that seems to go on forever. It makes Dean ache, leaves him empty and ravenous, and he has his mouth open to protest when Clay pushes back in.

It’s a faster entry than the first, and Dean thrashes against the bike. His thigh muscles tense and quiver—he’d be collapsed back on the seat if Clay weren’t holding him up. Then Clay does it again, and again, and again, and Dean can’t do anything but take it, lashed down and helpless in the face of such overwhelming waves of pleasure.

It can’t get better than this, can’t possibly, except Clay somehow tilts Dean’s ass to a slightly different angle and it does—on the next thrust, Dean lets out an unrestrained cry that would choke him with shame if he weren’t so dazed. Clay makes a pleased sound behind him and starts pounding into that spot, driving cry after cry out of Dean and making his cock dribble copious amounts of precome. Fuck, Dean didn’t think he had that much in him—then again, he couldn’t have imagined the sharp, jolting bursts of pleasure, either.

Dean’s been wrong a lot today, but as Clay picks up speed, he finds he doesn’t mind.

He opens his eyes—Christ, he has to stop doing drifting off in his head—in an effort to focus on something other than the unbearably good sensations pouring through him, to stave off his orgasm for a little while longer. His vision is blurry but serviceable as he forces his head up.

House, garage, hot tub, Sam, woods, lawn, Impala, sk—

Wait.

Dean’s eyes snap back to his brother, who is standing halfway between the Impala and Clay’s bike with an unreadable expression on his face. He’s watching Dean get pounded—has been standing there god only knows how long—and for some reason, instead of shutting Dean down, that knowledge is what forces him over the edge.

He hasn’t ever been noisy when he comes, but he can’t seem to shut up this time; keeps up a steady stream of moans and cries as Clay’s cock pistons in and out of him, moving faster now as Clay builds to his own climax. It’s over with in a few minutes, and Dean drops his head again, praying that Sam will just go away.

Or, better yet, that Sam was just some kind of pre-orgasm delusion.

Clay buries himself deep for his climax, hands shaking where he’s holding onto Dean. And then, carefully, he eases out and lowers Dean back onto the bike. Dean tries not to think of how it must look to Sam as he grimaces and shifts in an attempt to get comfortable—Christ, his ass feels loose. Little sore, too.

Clay hasn’t said anything yet, though, and he isn’t scrambling to cover up, so maybe the Sam thing really was an illusion. Dean has to catch a break every once in a while, right?

“Hey, Sam. See anything you like?”

Okay, maybe not.

“He better have agreed to this, or I swear to God, I—”

“I gave him a knife,” Clay answers while Dean does his best to sink into the bike. “He could have cut himself free whenever he wanted. Although I have to say, man. For someone so concerned for his brother’s virtue, you waited a little long to check for consent.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, but Dean can hear him coming closer, which is so completely the opposite of what he’s supposed to do in this situation that Dean overcomes his embarrassment enough to say, “Get lost, Sammy.”

He thinks about cutting himself free ( _freaking miracle he still has the knife after the paces Clay just put him through_ ) and then decides that moving at all is a bad idea. He just needs to stay very still, and keep his voice as forbidding as possible, and Sam will go away and they can pretend this never happened.

He can’t hear Sam moving at all now, and when he sneaks a peek, he sees that his brother has frozen again. Sam is staring in Dean’s direction like he hasn’t ever seen Dean before. Which he hasn’t. Not like this, anyway. But there’s something else in his expression, something that makes Dean’s stomach flutter nervously as he turns his face away again.

“I’m serious, dude,” he bites out. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“I feel for you, Sam,” Clay says. “I really do. I mean, I know how this has to look.”

“Do you?” Sam’s voice sounds calm on the surface, but Dean knows him well enough to recognize the amount of effort it’s costing, and he winces. The possibility of Sam letting this go is rapidly shrinking down to nothing.

“I have looked in a mirror before, yeah.”

For all of three seconds that doesn’t compute in Dean’s head. Then, suddenly, everything snaps into focus—that nagging sense of familiarity, Sam’s incredulous reaction when they got here, all those conversations Sam kept trying to pull him aside for.

Jesus Christ, Dean basically just fucked his own brother.

 _No,_ Dean tells himself as he breaks out in a cold sweat. Clay’s just some random dude. He might look like Sam, but it isn’t the same.

From his steadily rising heart rate, he isn’t sure how good a job he’s doing of convincing himself, though.

“Come on, Sam,” Clay adds. “I’m not going to judge, and you aren’t going to get a better chance than this.”

A better chance for what—that’s what Dean wants to know, except that his stomach has sunk right down into the earth because he already knows the answer. Conflicting emotions snap through him—excitement, relief, terror, shame—and although his muscles are still worn out from his second orgasm, he struggles against the ropes. He has to pull free, has to get away before Sam… before he changes things, fucks them up.

“Dean,” Sam says, his voice thick with emotions Dean doesn’t want to touch with a ten-foot pole. He’s closer now, way too close for comfort, and Dean gives a jerk of his arms that almost topples the bike.

“Hey, careful,” Clay warns, and a second later he’s there in front of Dean, jeans pulled up but still open. He grasps the handles and holds the motorcycle steady while giving Dean a patient, even look. Like Dean’s being unreasonable about this.

Well, fuck that shit.

Dean turns his head, looking for Sam, and sure enough, Sam is standing right next to the bike. He looks like he’s thinking about things he has no goddamned right thinking about.

“Don’t,” Dean warns. He hates how frightened and naked his voice sounds. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Sam’s eyes flinch, and for a second Dean thinks he got through. Then Sam licks his lips and says, “It’s a little late to deny you want this, Dean.”

Dean has a million and one explanations for how this is in no way the confirmation Sam thinks it is, but they all fly out of his head beneath the sudden rush of panic when he realizes Sam is reaching for him. He does, however, remember the knife, and twists his head forward again as he tries to maneuver the blade around so that he can cut himself free and make a run for it.

As he adjusts his grip on the handle, though, something happens. He isn’t sure whether to blame his sweaty palms or trembling fingers, but in the end it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the clatter of the knife as it drops, hitting the front fork of the bike on the way down and narrowly missing Clay’s foot.

“No,” Dean whispers. His chest has gone cold and numb; his stomach is a mess of writhing excitement. He can’t handle the juxtaposition, burying his face against the inside of his arm as he continues to beg, “No, no no no no…”

Sam’s fingers brush his hip, tentatively at first but quickly gaining confidence as Dean’s whispered protests die off into silence. He can’t force any more words through the blockage in his throat; has to focus all of his efforts on just getting air into his lungs.

He flinches as Sam grows bolder, stroking those huge hands ( _so like Clay’s, but so very, very different in all the ways that matter_ ) over Dean’s back and down his flank and along his thighs. It feels wrong; it’s sickening. It should be, anyway, and the fact that Dean can feel himself hardening against the seat again is in no way a commentary on what he wants from Sam. It’s just… it’s a normal response to the exploratory, reverent petting.

He doesn’t want Sam. He can’t. The idea that he could is just… Christ, it goes against everything Dean has been raised to believe.

Then Sam’s fingers curl around, trying to push between Dean’s stomach and the leather seat, and that is so not happening. Tensing his muscles, Dean presses himself down more firmly.

“Come on, Dean. Lift up for a sec.”

Dean isn’t actually sure which of them said that, but it doesn’t matter. His response is the same for both.

“Fuck you.” For once, he doesn’t care how choked his voice sounds. He’s just glad to have made his position on the matter known.

Sam stops pushing, but doesn’t move his hand. A moment later, something brushes Dean’s shoulder blade. It happens again, further closer to Dean’s spine, and then higher—on the side of his neck. It’s Sam’s mouth, he realizes; Sam kissing him and working his way toward Dean’s face, and Dean can’t hide the shudder of denialhopeneedfear that ripples through him.

“Please,” Sam whispers, kissing Dean’s cheek. “God, Dean, let me see.”

What he doesn’t understand is that this is ruining Dean; it’s tearing him apart inside. The problem isn’t being touched like this, although that’s plenty bad. No, it’s Dean’s response that’s wrecking him.

And now Sam wants to _see_. Christ.

“I love you,” Sam adds, which sets off an even deeper quake inside of Dean’s chest. “And I—I want you. God, Dean, I’ve wanted you for years, so just—let me.”

Dean’s only warning is a sharp stinging sensation in his eyes and then he’s crying—fucking crying like a little baby; it’d be ridiculous if his chest weren’t such a mess. He wants to curse Sam again. He wants to cling to the bike until Sam gets tired of asking and goes away. He wants to reach inside of himself and rip out whatever it is that makes him feel like this.

But Sam’s like a motherfucking weasel when he gets his teeth in something; you have to pry his jaws open to make him let go, and sometimes not even that’ll work.

Shaking and hesitant, with a bitter, defeated taste in his mouth, Dean eases himself up. He keeps his eyes tightly shut, and only flinches a little when Sam slides a hand low over his stomach and finds Dean’s cock more than half hard. When Sam closes his fingers around it, it gives a jerk of excitement and hardens more.

“I’m sorry,” Dean chokes out. “Sammy, I—I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I’m not,” Sam says. He gives Dean’s cock a single, deliberate pull before letting go.

Released, Dean drops back down against the bike and tries to pull himself back together. He can hear Clay and Sam talking—about what, he doesn’t care; as far as Dean is concerned, nothing they’re discussing can even come close to the catastrophe of having confirmed the fact that he wants to jump Sam’s bones.

Like that sort of thing is okay in any universe.

He comes back to himself quickly enough when someone cuts through the ropes binding his wrists to the handlebar, though. As soon as there’s enough give, Dean jerks his hands back and pulls the rest of the coils off. His wrists are a little chafed, which is to be expected, but at least they don’t appear to be bleeding. They’re just going to be bruised as hell for a few weeks.

Dean wipes his cheeks on the side of his arm, and then hauls in a calming breath as he sits up while Clay moves around to his right to slice through the rope binding Dean’s calf to the motorcycle wheel. Dean sits up gingerly—partially, because Sam is standing there watching him. The stripped, naked feeling in his chest is making him cautious as well. So is the weird, open sensation lingering in his ass.

Dean doesn’t even want to know what he looks like down there right now.

Still, none of that stops him from getting up when Clay has cut his left leg free as well, or from staggering away from the bike on unsteady legs toward the pile of neatly-folded clothes he took off before today’s misadventure began. He bends over to pick them up and then freezes halfway down as someone grips his forearm.

It’s Sam. Of course it’s Sam.

“Not yet,” Sam says. The timbre of his voice is low and rich enough with meaning that Dean would know what he’s after even if he weren’t rubbing his thumb back and forth over Dean’s arm.

He wishes he could say the thought disgusts him, but while there is a little bit of horror still floating around, mostly his instincts are telling him to bend over and spread. Shit, that’s fucked up.

“We’re not doing this,” he says, jerking his arm away and moving aside.

He runs into a broad chest before he’s gotten more than a step.

“Why not?” Clay asks as Dean swears and shifts away in the other direction.

His muscles are tense as he looks from one side to the other: two nearly identical gaze pinning him with less than six inches of breathing room between them. Haven’t either of these assholes ever heard of personal space? There are avenues of escape to the right and left, of course, but Dean doesn’t want to find out whether Sam would let him run unless he absolutely has to.

“Um. Let me count the ways,” he says, making his voice as angry and determined as he can manage when he was crying like a baby less than ten minutes ago. Then again, he’s always been pretty good at putting up a brave front. Holding up a hand, he counts off on his fingers, “My dad. His dad. Oh wait, that’s just one reason, isn’t it, because we’re _brothers_ , Sam.” He’s coming a little unglued as he focuses his attention on Sam again, but that’s okay because this isn’t exactly a situation that demands a rational approach. “That makes this—”

“I know what it makes this,” Sam interrupts.

Dean thinks he might be lying, though, because Sam reaches out again, settling his hands around Dean’s waist like they belong there. His thumbs slide up and down Dean’s sides, sending tremors through him. Dean can’t meet the heat in Sam’s eyes. He can’t be touched like this when all he wants is for Sam to reach back between his cheeks to the place where he’s aching and open and fill him up again.

Giving his head a slight shake, he moves to back up and Clay is there, wrapping one arm around Dean’s chest and holding him still.

“Shh,” Clay says. “It’s okay.”

“Okay? _Okay?_ This is not okay, dude. This is so fucking far from okay, I—”

“Why?” Sam asks. Just that one, soft word, but it completely derails Dean. He glances back up at Sam’s face and then away again.

He doesn’t have an answer for that question—not one that Sam isn’t going to be able to tear apart as bullshit the instant Dean speaks—so instead he twists his head around and appeals, “Clay. Clay, man, this is—we have to go after your sister. We don’t have time for—”

“We have to wait until dark, don’t we?” Clay counters. “That’s what you said, right? You have something that’ll help, but revenants need to be killed in the moonlight. Which leaves us with a couple of hours to fill.”

“Your sister, Whitney, she—”

“She’s probably scared, but otherwise fine,” Sam beaks in. His left hand lifts from Dean’s hip and comes down to cup his cock, which is stuck in the same stupid, horny daze it’s been in all day. It’s all Dean can do not to buck up and forward into Sam’s grip.

“Besides,” Clay adds from behind Dean. “I want you focused tonight. Now, I didn’t plan on us getting caught, but it happened, and I think that the only way you’re going to be at the top of your game is if you get this out of your system. Go ahead and tell me I’m wrong.”

Dean can’t, and his chest perks up at the phrasing. Maybe this is just some weird, temporary insanity. Maybe if he lets this happen ( _fuck, how can he be considering that as an option?_ ), that’ll be that. A few minutes of insanity, and then he and Sam can go back to being brothers.

But that hope still doesn’t stop him from trying, “Sam, Sammy, I—I can’t do this, man.”

Sam leans in and before Dean’s eyes have finished widening in alarm, Sam’s mouth is on his. Sam’s lips aren’t anything like a girl’s. Neither is the way he takes control, working Dean’s mouth over with dizzying thoroughness. By the time he finally pulls back, Dean is lightheaded. His body is covered in a light sheen of sweat.

And yeah, his cock is very definitely up and raring for round three.

“I want you,” Sam says. “You obviously want me. So what’s the problem, Dean?”

“I—I’m just—” He can’t say what he is, not with Clay breathing down his neck. Maybe not even if it were just him and Sam, because there’s shit that Dean isn’t ever going to be able to admit out loud, and the depth of his fear over this new development—where it’s going to take them, what it’ll do to their relationship—is one of them.

Sam seems to get it, though, because he takes his hand off of Dean’s cock and brushes his knuckles over Dean’s cheek instead. It’s impossible not to look at someone who’s touching him so gently, and when Dean lifts his eyes, he finds Sam’s expression understanding and sympathetic.

“It’s okay to be scared,” Sam says.

Dean’s heart kicks in his chest at hearing it said aloud like that, and he takes a single awkward step back before Clay and Sam’s combined holds force him to a halt.

“I’m not fucking scared!” he snaps.

The half-smile that Sam gives Dean goes a long way toward turning that into the truth; there’s no room to be frightened when he’s so annoyed at his brother’s attitude.

“Okay,” Sam says as he moves even closer. “Are we doing this, then?”

Sam’s hand on his hip does move then, slipping around to cup Dean’s ass. Sam’s fingers find his hole and push just inside, testing, and yeah, that’s revving Dean’s motor way past go. He pants, shifting around as he tries to figure out if he wants to pull away from the intrusion or get Sam’s fingers deeper.

He shuts his eyes for a second—it only confuses things more—and then opens them again as he gives a jerky, reluctant nod.

And Sam steps back.

What the hell?

“He’s going to panic,” Sam says, looking past Dean at Clay. “Keep him distracted.”

“Hey!” Dean protests, then grunts as Clay’s fingers push up into the place Sam’s were just teasing—deeper than Sam went, though, and, after a brief search, rubbing over the blindingly pleasurable place inside him. Dean makes another inarticulate noise as his pulse rate and body temperature jump.

“You really are beautiful, you know that?”

Dean knows exactly where Clay can shove his compliments, but he’s too busy swallowing his own moans to say so.

“Christ, the mouth on you,” Clay adds, running his free fingers over Dean’s lips.

Dean tilts his head back, searching for air, and, when Clay’s fingers give a trial push, he parts his lips farther. Clay’s fingers are salty as they slide in, with a slightly bitter, flakey layer that Dean thinks has to be his own come. The thought is unexpectedly arousing, and he swallows them deeper, sucking and rubbing his tongue between them.

“Fuck,” Clay says shakily, and a second later Dean’s mouth drops wider on a cry as the guy works another finger inside of him—four, feels like, nowhere as deep as Dean wants them but plenty thick.

He hears Sam coming back, but can’t look. He can’t bear to see whatever expression is on Sam’s face as he sees Dean like this.

“I want his mouth,” Clay says, which makes Dean’s already overheated skin flush.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Sam says, “Okay.”

The permission twists Dean’s insides up in just the right way. There’s a pretty big part of him that’s relieved Sam is taking charge here—that Dean doesn’t have to own up to how much he wants it himself. Although if Sam thinks Dean’s going to start following his lead on hunts after this, he’s out of his fucking mind.

Dean winces as Clay’s fingers come out of him—at both ends—but more hands are there in the next instant, easing him down toward the ground. Dean goes, opening his eyes and getting more of an eyeful than he was expecting—wherever Sam went just now, he also stripped. Dean has seen his brother naked before—unavoidable when living in close quarters—but he hasn’t ever seen him naked and erect, and it’s… impressive.

“On your back,” Sam says, uncapping a small tube, and then glances up at Clay, who is also shedding his clothes. “You get his mouth after I’m in. I want him to be able to see who’s fucking him.”

“Jesus Christ, Sam,” Dean mutters, but he doesn’t protest as Sam pushes his legs apart and crawls in close between his thighs. Sam squeezes a liberal amount of lube onto his left hand before discarding the tube, then grips his cock and starts to stroke himself. It’s half jerk-off session, half routine application—with a little bit of a show thrown in. He won’t stop staring at Dean’s face, which Dean only knows tangentially, because he can’t stop staring at Sam’s cock.

Somehow, though, it isn’t until Sam has his ass tilted up and resting on the top of Sam’s thighs that Dean realizes he isn’t wearing a condom.

“Hey,” he says, rousing a little. “Where’s the raincoat?”

Sam shoots Dean a look that shuts him right up. “You let a stranger with my face open you up and fuck you. Fine. I’m not going to do anything about it, and I’m going to let him have your mouth this one time because we owe him. But after that, it’s over. No one else, Dean, do you understand?”

“You’re—dude, what the fuck, are you marking your territory?”

Sam’s only answer to that is to lock eyes with Dean and press his cock against the aching, empty place between his legs. It feels different already, with just the tip of Sam’s dick slipping past his rim.

It isn’t a question of how easily Dean finds himself opening up as Sam holds his gaze and pushes forward, sliding into Dean’s ass like he belongs there. It isn’t the sharper sensations either: Sam’s skin moving inside of him, warm and soft, on a thin glide of lube. It isn’t even the way Sam’s cock feels bigger in this position, making Dean ease his thighs further apart as though he can relieve some of the overwhelming pressure that way.

Sam’s cock isn’t any bigger than Clay’s. It isn’t longer, or thicker, or shaped differently.

It’s filling Dean up more thoroughly anyway—a solid, heavy weight that feels like it’s pushing from his ass all the way up to his chest—and Dean digs his fingers into the ground in an effort to anchor himself. His throat aches it’s so locked up, and his stomach is rising and falling quickly as Sam leans forward, right into his space, and kisses him. It’s probably the worst kiss Dean has given in his life, because his brain is still too focused between his legs where Sam’s cock is pushing inside him to manage anything but passive non-resistance.

Christ, he can feel Sam’s cock pulsing inside of him in time with his brother’s heartbeat.

Sam breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against Dean’s as he breathes, “Fuck, you feel good.”

“Sam,” Dean manages in a hoarse, strangled voice.

“I’m inside you,” Sam adds, ignoring him.

It’s such a stupid thing to say—especially in that wondering, warm tone of voice—but Dean is beyond the ability to scowl because Sam is right. Sam’s cock is inside of him, Sam is fucking him—Sam, his goddamned brother.

Dean blinks, stunned by how good that knowledge feels, as Sam straightens and tugs him higher on his thighs. It drives Sam’s cock in even deeper, which Dean didn’t think was possible, and he makes a choked noise. A moment later, when Sam pulls halfway out before thrusting back in, Dean’s moan comes out loud and clear.

“I don’t remember you being this noisy when you fuck girls, Dean,” Sam says, working himself deeper.

If Dean had his voice right now, he’d be able to tell his brother that that’s because fucking girls has never felt like this, but he’s too busy panting. The noises slipping out between shallow breaths aren’t moans or gasps, but something in between—and Sam is just moving his hips with easy, languid rolls right now, which means Dean is going to be fucked in more ways that one when he gets going.

It takes him a while to notice Clay standing to his right, stroking his cock and watching Sam fuck into him, but once he does, he turns his head away. Like that’s going to be enough to hide him from view. One of Sam’s hands comes down on Dean’s stomach and rubs reassuringly; a moment later, Sam pulls back far enough for his cock to flop out.

The noise that tears from Dean’s throat is half groan, half disappointed protest.

“Shh,” Sam says, manhandling Dean first onto his side and then over to his stomach. “We promised.”

Dean breathes in the warm summery scent of grass and earth and then Sam is gripping his hips, hauling him back up into a kneeling position on all fours. Dean groans as he’s immediately filled again, and his head drops down. Sam isn’t wasting any time now, and he gives Dean all of a heartbeat to adjust before pulling almost all the way out and slamming in again.

Dean won’t call the sound that he makes a yelp, but he isn’t sure there’s a better word for it, either.

“He’s really giving it to you, isn’t he?” Clay asks. His voice is unexpectedly close, and when Dean jerks his head up, he finds himself staring at a hard, condom-covered cock. His stomach lurches—he doesn’t think he can do this, not while Sam is riding him so thoroughly and distractingly from behind—and he starts to drop his head again. On Sam’s next thrust in, though, a hand grips Dean’s hair and jerks his head back.

“We promised,” Sam pants, and then moans as he speeds his thrusts.

Dean doesn’t remember promising anything, actually, but for some reason he doesn’t protest when Clay reaches out and opens his mouth for him. He watches Clay’s cock come closer and closer, until it’s resting on Dean’s lower lip. The powdery smell of latex is in his nose, and a second later the taste is in his mouth as Clay pushes forward.

Dean isn’t sure what to do with his lips or tongue—especially not when Sam has found just the right spot to pound into him from behind. Sam’s bare cock, moving in and out of him faster than Dean can really register, and setting off a needy ache in his ass. As Clay carefully fills Dean’s mouth, Dean’s dick pulses with an almost painful knot of arousal and jerks in midair. He moans around the length in his mouth, pleading for that tiny, extra push, and a second later Sam’s hand is out of his hair and gripping the base of his cock.

Keeping him from coming, the little shit.

“Mmmph,” Dean manages, which is universal for ‘you asshole’, and Sam must know it.

But he only growls, “No,” and keeps thrusting, sending wave after wave of sharp-edged pleasure through Dean while refusing to allow him any release.

Eyes watering with how much he needs to come, Dean tries to distract himself by licking awkwardly at the cock in his mouth. That latex flavor is everywhere, though, overwhelming, and the condom seems to be sucking all the moisture out of his mouth. He’s pretty sure this is not feeling as good for Clay as Clay thought it would.

“Aw, fuck,” Sam grunts from behind him, tightening his grip on Dean’s hip and cock and drawing a muffled shout of pain from him. The hand on Dean’s cock loosens almost immediately in apology, but Dean can feel bruises forming on his hip as Sam pushes in deep and stays there.

Dean can’t feel anything at first—not until Sam pulls out almost a minute later, breath coming in harsh pants. Then he feels the wet trickling deep inside of him. When he tries to clench up, he can’t quite manage it, and he grimaces around Clay’s cock at the sensation of come leaking out of him and smearing between the cheeks of his ass.

Clay thrusts in and out of Dean’s mouth a few more times and then pulls away, cock still hard and a pained expression on his face. “This isn’t working,” he confesses.

Sam may not be inside Dean anymore, but he hasn’t actually moved away either, and he runs a hand from Dean’s stomach up to his chest as he says, “Guess the skills don’t come with the mouth, huh, Dean?”

If Dean weren’t still half out of his mind with how much he needs to come, he thinks he’d be insulted by that remark. As it is, all he can do is hang his head and grunt in stressed agreement. Sam’s hand around his cock tightens briefly, then loosens to give him a teasing caress that makes Dean sob. Before Dean has recovered from the cruel stab of arousal, Sam is up and pulling Dean with him.

“I think we can fix that,” he says, leading Dean back toward the bike.

Dean thought that walking was uncomfortable before, but that had nothing on this wet, slick sensation rubbing between his ass cheeks with every step. And the ache inside him feels deeper, rawer; his ass muscles keep twitching like they’re looking for something to pull in.

He’s confused when Sam reaches the bike and sits down on the pillion seat, facing away from the handlebars, but doesn’t put up much of a fight when Sam pulls him up into his lap. Even propped up with a stand as it is and sunk a little into the soft ground from Dean’s earlier activities, the bike sways with their combined weight. It’s a good thing Sam’s legs are long enough to brace against the ground and keep them steady.

Dean gets a hand on his brother’s shoulder and is struck suddenly by how intimate this position is—his mouth is about an inch from Sam’s; Sam’s intense, covetous eyes are impossible to ignore. Their chests rub together. Their stomachs brush with every breath.

“Okay,” Dean says finally in voice hearty with false cheer. “I give up. What’re we doing?”

In answer, Sam leans in, tilting his head, and bites down on the side of Dean’s throat. It feels good, and the instinctive writhe that Dean gives where he’s straddling his brother’s lap feels even better. He does it again, pressing his own mouth against Sam’s neck and even daring to dart his tongue out for a taste. Salt. Sweet coconut from the sun block they both put on earlier. And, beneath that, Sam.

Sam moves underneath him and Dean adjusts his own posture to compensate, pushing up slightly. When Sam stills again, and Dean sits back down, Sam’s cock slides into his open ass easily.

Dean shudders, taken by surprise at the wave of pleasure that accompanies the unexpected penetration, and this time there’s no hand around his cock to stop his orgasm. His ass works as he comes, muscles clenching reflexively in a way they refuse to when he’s consciously trying for it, and Sam throws an arm around his back, jerking their chests flush and holding him still.

It’s Dean’s third orgasm in what can’t have been more than an hour, and his cock feels sore and spent when he’s done. He’s exhausted, barely clinging to consciousness, and when Sam’s arm around his torso wordlessly urges him to relax, he rests his forehead against Sam’s shoulder and slumps against his brother, lazily enjoying the sensation of Sam’s cock wedging him open. Sam’s mouth is still at work on his throat, earnestly enough that Dean’s sure he’s going to have a splendid collection of hickeys later, but Dean doesn’t give a shit. Right now, as long as no one makes him move, they’re golden.

He doesn’t notice the fingers rubbing around his hole at first. It’s nothing more than a light, teasing tickle that’s making his skin hum and the rim of his ass relax further. It isn’t until one of the fingers actually pushes in alongside Sam’s cock that Dean opens his eyes and tries to sit up. Sam’s arm is a bar holding him still.

“Sam,” he grunts, twisting in his brother’s lap as the slicked up finger traces around Sam’s dick where it’s nestled inside of him.

“Just this once,” Sam says, lips grazing Dean’s throat. “It’ll feel good. Considering how much you like getting fucked, you’re going to be begging me to let you do this again.”

As another lube-slicked finger forces its way in next to the first, Dean isn’t so sure of that. This is starting to hurt again, and his chest, which had loosened up, is clenched tight again. His stomach rolls with nerves.

“Christ, Clay,” he mutters. “Please tell me you’ve done this before.”

The fingers inside him don’t even hesitate as Clay says, “From this end.”

Dean swears shakily, but he doesn’t protest again because Sam is right. Sam’s always fucking right. He was right about how good this would be for them, and he was right about Dean being scared, and he was right in thinking Dean would go ahead and spread for him anyway. He’s right about how much Dean apparently loves getting fucked.

If Clay hadn’t convinced Dean into stepping outside of his comfort zone, if he hadn’t pushed Sam when Sam showed up, Dean wouldn’t currently be straddling his brother’s lap with Sam’s ginormous cock up his ass.

So Sam’s right there, too; they do owe the guy, even if Dean’s petrified of how this is going to work.

He can’t help but whimper when Clay works in a third finger, and Sam shifts, reaching between them to fondle Dean’s balls. It’s meant as a distraction, Dean is sure, but he’s sensitive as hell from all of his orgasms and he sucks in a sharp breath, rocking his hips back and accidentally forcing Clay’s fingers deeper. He freezes in the next instant, exhale coming in a shaky sob that no one seems to notice. It isn’t until Sam gives his balls a tug and Dean hisses that he feels Sam hesitate beneath him.

“That hurt?” Sam murmurs, in between laps at Dean’s bruised, aching throat.

“Little sore,” Dean confesses through clenched teeth, and lets out a grateful sigh when Sam lets go and starts stroking his hand up and down Dean’s side instead.

Not that that’s much of a distraction when Clay pulls his fingers out and moves closer.

“Oh fuck,” Dean whispers, squeezing his eyes shut and tightening his grip on Sam’s bicep.

“Don’t tense up,” Clay advises. Which, y’think?

The first blunt press of a second cock at Dean’s hole feels ludicrous. There isn’t any room left down there; he doesn’t care if he just somehow managed to take three fingers. Then Clay grips his left hip and tries again—a steady, burning pressure against the rim of Dean’s ass. Dean feels the moment the muscle starts to give; a faint quiver at first, and then a stronger twitch, and then, suddenly, the head of Clay’s cock pops in.

Dean yells as his ass suddenly stretches to accommodate the doubled girth. Sweat is pouring off of him, his head is spinning and the scent of salt and sex is thick on the air. Sam is making soothing noises as he continues to stroke Dean’s side, but that seems to be happening somewhere very far away from the second cock forcing its way up inside him, and Dean doesn’t even try to keep his mouth shut against the moans and whimpers climbing out of his throat.

It’s too much, too full, and even though the pain is already fading, Dean doesn’t think he can handle this. He doesn’t know how the fuck he has room inside of him for this. He cracks an eye open, looking down at the visible sliver of his stomach that he can see past Sam’s chest, and is almost surprised to find it as flat as ever.

“Almost in,” Clay says tightly from behind him, and Dean’s stomach lurches in horror, because there is no way he can take more.

Except with one rough thrust, he feels Clay’s cock slot the rest of the way home, so apparently he can.

Dean whines helplessly in the back of his throat as his legs go loose and numb. Shutting his eyes again, he presses his face against the side of Sam’s neck and shakes.

“Good boy,” Sam whispers in a strained voice as he lifts his hand from Dean’s side to stroke his hair. “You’re taking us both, baby, you feel that?”

“S’too much,” Dean manages. His head is spinning and he feels feverish. The entire day has gone over-bright and intense. Everything is sharp and terribly real, which oddly enough leaves him with a dreamlike sense of detachment.

“You’re doing fine,” Sam replies, and then kisses the side of his neck again. “Come on, Dean. You’re going to need to do the moving here until you loosen up.”

Oh God.

Dean wants to protest that Sam is asking the impossible, but instead he finds himself somehow getting his shaking legs to support him again as he pushes up. The sensation of both cocks receding at once is alarming and he drops down faster than he means to—cries out when one of the cocks ends up wedged against the loud, pleasurable spot deep inside him.

“Oh fuck!” he spits, trembling. He’s torn between staying where he is as long as that electric current is running through him and pulling completely off so he can get a goddamn breath for a second. After a moment of indecision, he compromises by lifting up a few inches and sinking down again.

He’s a little more prepared for the intensity of the sensation this time, and his recovery time is shorter. He pulls up further, sinks down with a more purposeful motion. As pleasure sweeps him again, he shudders more strongly against Sam and is reassured by Sam’s hand petting his side.

“Good, Dean,” Sam tells him breathlessly. “Just like that.”

Dean fucks himself up and down on their cocks a couple more times and then chokes on his own spit as Clay starts moving as well, thrusting up as Dean sinks down. Dean expects Sam to yell at the dude, but the next time Dean lifts up, Sam thrusts instead, keeping his cock buried deep. He relaxes as Dean lowers himself again, but then Clay shoves back in, and right about there is when Dean sends up the white flag.

Overbalancing, he leans his weight on Sam and lets his brother and Clay hold him up while they take turns thrusting into him—always keeping at least once cock buried deep, and occasionally two when someone misses his rhythm. Dean can hear himself making breathy noises with every thrust, but he’s past caring. Pleasure has become a constant feedback whine through his body, leaving him at once on edge and exhausted. It seems like he’s constantly poised on the verge of orgasm, despite the fact that his cock is limp and small where it’s pressed against Sam’s stomach.

Then, finally, on one of those missed beats when both cocks are thrusting into him at once, it rips through him—intense, consuming arousal blurring his vision with white as he comes and comes and comes and his dick leaks a pitiful, thin stream of something he can’t even generously call precome. His ass muscles are still working perfectly fine, though, because they lock down as his climax drags out toward the horizon, catching both dicks deep inside him and squeezing them tightly.

Sam makes a surprised noise, and Clay grunts, and Dean chokes on relief as his muscles gradually unlock. It’s still a few minutes before Clay carefully eases out—fuck, his dick seems to hurt more coming out than it did going in. Sam’s cock slips free a moment later, and Dean can feel his hole clenching and unclenching on air as more come dribbles out. It isn’t a sensation Dean wants to get used to.

After another longer pause, Sam stands up. His arms are shaking with strain, but Dean isn’t worried about being dropped. Sam knows he’d be a walking dead man if he did that right now. Still, it feels nice to be lowered onto the ground and feel Sam collapse alongside him.

Dean gives himself a few, blissful minutes of peace while his pulse returns to normal and his ass begins to pound in protest. Then he licks his lips and says, “Hey, Sam.”

“Yeah.”

“Next time, you’re using a condom.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“Because that sort of sounded like the ‘yeah, I hear you, but I’m gonna do it my way’ sort of okay.”

“Yeah.”

A few feet away, Dean can hear Clay huff a weary laugh to himself. He gives himself another pause to think of a comeback and then settles on muttering, “I hate you.”

“You love me,” Sam counters, and then rolls over and half smothers Dean where he’s lying, the enormous oaf.

“’S too hot,” Dean complains.

That gets him a grunt and a quick nip at his collarbone before Sam settles again.

“So I’m just gonna take a quick nap, okay?” Dean adds after a minute.

No one answers.

“Wake me up if the revenant shows up to kill us.”

“Will do.”

That’s Clay, muttering a sleepy response from wherever he collapsed. Sam, from the rhythm of his breathing, has already drifted off. From the encroaching, lazy weight tugging at Dean’s mind, he isn’t going to be far behind them.

“On second thought,” he mumbles. “I think I’mma sleep through it.”


End file.
